“Yeah, that explains it,” he said, tone light but edged. “No wonder you colonials are still living in the 90s. This place is a total time warp.”
The air snapped.
Mia felt the shift instantly—the hosts’ smiles tightening, the laughter dying into polite surprise. The moment fractured.
Oh no.
The segment wrapped quickly after that—cordial but cooled—and the second the mics were off, Mia was already moving toward him as the team ushered them out.
“What was that?” she asked quietly in the corridor, keeping her voice low.
Lucas shrugged, not breaking stride. “A joke.”
“It wasn’t.” She matched his pace. “It was condescending.”
“They give it as good as they get.”
“Yes—to each other. Not to someone who’s flown twelve thousand miles to promote your team.” She stopped short, forcing him to pause. “Lucas.”
He turned, irritation flashing. “You’re overreacting.”
“I’m from New Zealand,” she said evenly. “I grew up with Australians. I’ve dated Australians. They don’t mind teasing—they hate being talked down to. And that’s exactly what landed.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line. “So now I have to run every word past you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “That’s literally my job.”
He laughed—sharp, humourless. “You think you know better than me how to handle this?”
“I know better than you how to handlethispart,” she said. “You drive. I manage the fallout.”
His eyes hardened. “Maybe if you were better at it, there wouldn’t be any.”
The words landed like a slap. Her chest tightened, pride flaring hot.
“I can’t fix what you break on purpose,” she said quietly.
He held her gaze for a beat—something flickering behind the anger—then turned and walked away.
Mia stayed rooted, pulse racing, telling herself not to follow.
* * *
Lucas
Lucas knew the second it left his mouth.
The shift in the room. The recalibration. The instinct to double down had fired before reason could catch up. Always forward. Never retreat.
By the time Mia confronted him, the irritation was already armour—thick, reflexive.
She was too sure. Too calm. Too right.
He didn’t head straight to the hotel room. Instead he detoured to the makeshift physio setup in the team’s commissioned suite—standard for early weekend tweaks. Dana was already there, unpacking her kit.
He dropped onto the edge of the treatment table without a word. She took one look at his posture and started on his upper back—steady, unhurried pressure into the traps that had locked tight somewhere between London and Melbourne.
“You’re wound fucking tight,” she said. “Like you’ve been holding your breath since touchdown.”
